where's the money

I remember one sister
sitting beside my mother, as
she lay dying.
half in and half out
of consciousness,
asking her, tapping my
mother on the arm and asking
her where the money was.
where she may have hidden it,
in jar, or
box, or in a can buried
in the back yard.
i'm getting my inheritance
she said
to my mother, with no
guilt or shame, or remorse.
I wondered how much there
could be, twenty dollars,
a hundred? maybe more,
maybe less, all squirreled
away for some cold and wet,
rainy day.
and now the sister holding
my mothers cold hand, asking,
pleading, begging for a clue
as to where it all could be.
she was ready
to dig and dig, to find
this meager pot of gold,
keeping her alive until
she knew.